


experiments in propulsion

by yellowcars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, M/M, Sherlock should not be trusted with guns, author has no real knowledge of firearms, because now the milky way is leaking onto Mrs. Hudson's nice carpets, john just wants sexytimes, mrs. hudson is finished with this nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowcars/pseuds/yellowcars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock experiments with DIY bullet-manufacturing and ends up blowing a few holes into the universe. He also causes gratuitous damage to Mrs. Hudson's carpets. The latter is, of course, the more imminent point of concern.</p><p>crack!fic based off a km prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	experiments in propulsion

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: _A bored Sherlock shoots holes into the fabric of the universe. Mrs. Hudson is not pleased._

“ _Sherlock_ , I really wish you _wouldn’t_ keep shooting up my nice walls like this—don’t you know how difficult it is to get those gunpowder stains out of the wallpaper? Not to mention the bullet holes! Mrs. Turner does go _on_ about the noise, you know, and—oh dear, is that plaster dust?”

 

Mrs. Hudson’s voice drifts off indistinctly in the direction of the downstairs broom cupboard, presumably in search of plaster-dust removal devices and some peace of mind.

 

The perpetrator of gross crimes against wall-kind glances, satisfied, at the revolver before dropping it into the pocket of his dressing gown. Then, just as quickly, he reaches for it, aims at the long-suffering black-flowered wallpaper, and pulls the trigger.

 

Click, empty.

 

 _Damn_. He’s run out of bullets again.

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock, what on earth are you _doing?_ ”

 

It’s an understandable question for John Watson to be asking, albeit one he asks all too frequently, as he steps into a scene resembling a miniature firearm-manufacturing plant. Considering that when he went out for the milk fifteen minutes ago he left a living room that bore no resemblance whatsoever to the smoke-filled mess now dancing before his watering eyes, it only seems reasonable to ask. Knowing Sherlock, he’s probably not going to get a straight answer.

 

He doesn’t get any answer at all, in fact; just the sight of his flatmate prodding gleefully at what looks like a row of copper-plated—

 

“Are those bullets? Is this for a case, Sherlock?”

 

This time, he gets a terse reply that does nothing to hide the fact that, at least to Sherlock, Christmas seems to have come ten months early. “For personal use, John. I’ve run out.”

 

“You’ve—”

 

“Yes, yes, do keep up. I considered texting you to buy me more, but you’d come up with some dreadfully pedestrian protest, how _boring_ , and it was a simple matter to get my hands on some of the raw materials. Bullets are easy.”

 

Only years of long practice prevent John’s jaw from making a graceful descent to meet the floor. He settles for a long-suffering sigh instead.

 

Sherlock is still monologuing, completely unconcerned. “The problem is not bullets, but rather their disappointing tendency to disappear just as I’m reaching a particularly interesting conjecture. And if one cannot shoot at walls, one simply cannot _think_. And so I have decided to create—” and if John didn’t know that Sherlock disapproves of supervillain speech patterns, he would swear to God that the bloody man purposefully inserts a dramatic spine-tingling pause—“ _self-replicating bullets_.”

 

Right, so that’s that. It’s only been a matter of time. The world’s only consulting detective (by which, of course, is meant _John Watson’s consulting detective, which he now generously lends the rest of the world because he is a fundamentally nice person_ ) has gone certifiably off his rocker.

* * *

 

 John tries, he really does, but even his best diversionary tactics can’t persuade Sherlock to call off his mad experiment for longer than a night. Said night is tactile and sweaty in all the best sorts of ways, but even so, by the time John wakes up, there is a distinct lack of Sherlock on the other side of the sheets. Smoke and the smell of gunpowder float lazily through the door, and John can hear Sherlock crowing triumphantly on the other side of the wall.

 

He grumbles and gropes sleepily for his pants, but before he gets even one leg in, suddenly there’s a (clothed, how disappointing) Sherlock doing what John swears is a victory jig, one hand clutching something small and metal—one of his bizarre bullets, probably—and the other hand clutching something rather larger and also metal—a gun, _definitely_.

 

John recoils.

 

“Jesus, Sherlock, would you stop waving that thing around!”

 

“I’ve done it, John!” shouts Sherlock triumphantly. If he weren’t so against the idea of appearing derivative and pedestrian, he’d probably be hollering _Eureka!_ As it is, John’s already feeling cranky enough, though, admittedly, the sight of Sherlock running naked and dripping bathwater through the streets certainly does sound appealing.

 

(It’s early in the morning, okay. He deserves a bit of fantasy.)

 

“If this is about those bloody self-replicating whatevers— _get that gun away from my face, Sherlock_ —”

 

Sherlock just grins. It somehow combines marauding crocodile with self-absorped puppy. “Ah, but it is, it is!”

 

John tries for calm and reason. “That’s impossible, all right? Surely you’d be the first person to see that. Look, I know you’re angry about Mycroft getting his revenge for _Les Mis_ , we all are, but if you would just sit down—”

 

In reply, Sherlock loads the bullet in the revolver, and in one smooth motion, he aims at the black-flowered wallpaper and pulls the trigger.

 

* * *

 

 

“. . . _Jesus_ , Sherlock, is that the Milky Way leaking through our drywall?”

 

* * *

 

 

Okay, so perhaps Sherlock must admit some fault with his foray into bullet manufacture. He had gone for self-replicating and somehow ended with a model that opened tiny round wormholes in the heart of London. Either way, he seems to have broken the laws of physics. Scientist that he is, he isn’t sure that’s a compliment. He will need to consider the implications. And make it up to John. Yes, he is going to have to make it up to John.

 

But for now he has a supply of _universe-breaking bullets_. If that doesn’t count as Christmas coming early he doesn’t know what does. (Except for perhaps the time that John dragged him into that unexpected kiss and then told him, with something fierce and immutable swimming in his eyes, _I love you, you great bloody ponce_ , but that instance was special.) Sherlock barely suppresses a giggle of delight.

 

He loads another one, and shoots.

 

* * *

 

 

This time, Mrs. Hudson’s tutting can be heard from the street.

 

“Oh, _Sherlock_ , I thought you were working on solving that case for that nice gentleman with the red hair, not shooting at my wall! And just _look_ at the state of my floor, just look at it—that stuff, what d’you call it, plasma, it does terrible things to the rugs, not to mention all those swirly holes you’ve made, oooh, just looking at them gives me a terrible headache. _And_ you’ve gone and scared off the plumbers again—have you any idea, Sherlock, how difficult it was to get them back the last time? I mean, _honestly_ , Sherlock, I put up with a lot for you boys but I will not have all this awful dust drifting in on my carpets!”

 

John looks at Sherlock, arms crossed and pouting. John snorts. “She means it this time. No tea and biscuits for you for the forseeable future.”

 

Sherlock pouts, if possible, even harder. “It was my last bullet anyway,” he mumbles.

 

The tirade continues, mercifully indistinctly, from somewhere below them.

 

Sherlock lets out a self-pitying sigh. John smirks.

 

* * *

 

 Two days later, Mrs. Hudson is finally called off the warpath by a suitably contrite Sherlock, who promises that yes, he will fix up those “ _ridiculous_ , Sherlock, what were you _thinking?_ ” holes that he so accidentally shot into her woodwork, and that no, it will not happen ever again, he promises, not ever. John bravely keeps from sniggering in the background.

 

Their landlady treats them with a peaceful smile. “Oh, that’s so lovely to hear, Sherlock. I knew you’d come round.”

 

And then she fixes them with a glint in her eye that can bend steel, just for a second, as if to underline the fact that ripping apart the fabric of the universe is all well and good, but do it on her nice carpeting and you’re toast, Internet-sensation deerstalker detective or no.

 

Behind them, the bullet holes continue merrily leaking stardust. Sherlock coughs. If John didn’t know better, he’d say the man was nervous. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

 

“That’s all right, dear. That’s perfectly all right.”

 

* * *

 

 Sherlock finds a way to fix it, of course. Sherlock always does. On the other hand, he never stays down for long. Over their celebratory cuppas (the first made by Mrs. Hudson since Sherlock first decided to break the universe), John sees the gleam in his eye and can practically hear those wheels going click-click-click in his deviously genius brain.

“I think I might have a good chance of repeating that experiment if—”

 

But this time John’s there with an admirably well-timed snog to cut that particular train of thought right out of Sherlock’s mind. Sherlock can’t say he’s disappointed, exactly. John’s diversionary tactics have improved.

 

And anyway, there will be plenty more opportunities to break the universe. He can wait a tiny bit.

 

 

 


End file.
